Blood of Kirkwall
by schally
Summary: Mage Hawke grapples with her heritage and her future, as well as her friendships and rivalries with Fenris and Anders, as she uncovers Kirkwall's gruesome history.
1. Chapter 1

Act I

They waited patiently in the shade of the pillars of the Gallows courtyard. Mercenary work involved more standing and waiting than one might think.

"The décor could use some work," Carver said, staring up at the gaunt statues that framed the yard.

"The Tevinters aren't known for their aesthetics," Fenris said. "The statues were intended to intimidate slaves."

Carver glanced at Hawke, who gave a short confirmation nod. "This was a prison once," she said. "The Tevinters kept thousands of slaves here and used hundreds of them in blood sacrifices."

"That's... ghastly," Carver said, looking back up.

"They should have torn this thing down," Hawke said.

"I suppose you'd rather the mages had estates in Hightown?" Fenris asked.

"I'd rather they were tossed in the Amaranthine," Hawke said, not missing a beat. Fenris kept forgetting who he was dealing with. "But I get your point. The mages here need a prison like the Gallows. Everywhere we turn: weak mages, blood magic, demons. Mages in Ferelden had more sense."

Fenris hadn't yet decided if she was an egomanaic or just deluded. "You think you're different?"

"Maker willing," Hawke said.

He wasn't going to let her play it off so easily. "Everyone thinks they're the exception to the rule," he told her. "But if you were backed into a corner you would do whatever it took to survive, the same as they."

She wiped an imagined smudge off her mercenary armor. "I am not like the ones you knew, Fenris." Her voice was tight; she didn't like being lumped in with the rest of her kind.

0-0-0

She hated slavers almost as much as he did. She was raising coin for some ill-conceived expedition and whenever she got a job that involved the trade she invited him along. He would never forget the look she gave him when he drove his fist into Danzig's chest. Afterward, when they were nearly hip-to-hip, panting, surrounded by the fallen, she said, "You have your uses."

"As do you," he murmured, sheathing his sword.

She stricter with her fellow apostates than one might suppose. She tolerated Merrill, perhaps more than was wise, but she gave Anders no mercy. He's seen them fight—snarling, angry fights—and he wondered if their rivalry wasn't rooted in some attraction. But these thoughts made him uncomfortable and he buried them without asking why. It was none of his business.

She came to the manor with increasing frequency. They drank and talked, often quite late.

"If you have to choose between blood magic and death," she said, her words softened by wine, "You choose death. That's what my father taught me. There is no other option." There was something exquisite about her when she was slightly drunk, with her heavy eyelids and her carefully enunciated words. He relished such moments.

When she came to tell him the Deep Roads expedition was finally leaving she did not ask him to come with her. He was furious, and behaved rudely towards her because he knew no other way. But when she turned to go he felt a flicker of uncertainty—what if this was their last conversation?-and held up a peace offering: "You intend to return, I assume. There are a few bottles in the cellar you've neglected."

She paused in the doorway. "Don't run off to kill Denarius without me."

"I won't," he said, and immediately wondered at the promise. He wasn't sure why he'd said it, or why he felt obligated to honor it, but he did. He continued to work in and around Kirkwall. It was the usual mercenary work, and it earned him just enough coin to maintain his inquiries, of which there were several, and pay the bribes needed to secure his privacy. He thought of her, from time to time. He occasionally caught himself counting the days.

The expedition took longer than three weeks. When Hawke returned, Carver was dead and she had changed. She was obsessed with restoring House Amell and her mother's status. She was a talented woman with extraordinary promise, and he could not begrudge her rising to her true station, but in her immaculate robes and glittering jewelry she carried a specter of the Magisters. The hidden Hawke, the one he'd caught glimpses of on those companionable nights, did not surface much anymore.

He felt a tinge of some unhappy something when he saw her walking through High Town, her heavy robes swaying with each step. He could not say what. He could not say why.

0-0-0

She called him Warden in those early days, as if she couldn't be bothered to recall his actual name.

It was always, "Hey, Warden."

Anders hated it.

He felt this dismissal was linked to something deeper-a dismissal of himself, of his purpose. He knew she did not like his politics. She was unfairly judgmental of his merging with Justice and was quick to label other mages as inferior. She deferred to the Chantry's teaching that mages were tainted and the weak were destined to succumb to blood magic, demons, or worse.

They fought often. But there was something about her pride and determination that drew him in. More than once, he wondered what it would be like to run his fingers through that unruly hair and kiss that defiant mouth into submission. He was impelled to make her understand his side of things, to acknowledge the rightness of his crusade, and her unwillingness to yield only strengthened his resolve.

When Hawke went on the Deep Roads expedition she did not ask him to go with her. She didn't even tell him she was leaving. He only knew about it because Varric stopped by the clinic to say goodbye, and thanks for the map, and he'd buy him a drink when they returned with their newly-acquired fortunes.

This bothered him more than the sum of every quarrel they'd had. All his work to turn her to his side couldn't have been for nothing. He knew Justice disapproved, but he couldn't let it go. He found her at the Hangman, at the spot she favored in the far corner, with Isabela mercifully absent.

"One for the Roads," she told him when he approached, holding her glass up in a mock salute.

"So you're finally going," he said. He hadn't quite believed she'd scraped up fifty sovereigns until that moment.

"I am," she said.

"Be careful," he warned. "You don't know what's down there."

"I will," she said. "Don't get turned tranquil while I'm gone."

"How can you joke about that?" he demanded.

"Warden," she said. "I'm an apostate and you're an abomination. We have to joke about something."

"I came to wish you well and you're mocking me. Wonderful. Enjoy your darkspawn." He turned heel, but she caught up with him at the door and took his arm. She'd never touched him before. He didn't pull away.

"Be careful, will you?" she said. "Aveline say's you're attracting attention, and I know you love attention, but this is the kind you should really try to avoid."

"Good," he said. "People should pay attention to me, to our plight. They should know how we're treated." He frowned at her expression. "What?"

"I envy you sometimes," she said.

"What does that mean?" He knew he was picking a fight, but he didn't care. He thought about her a lot, about how much she could help the cause, and as it turned out she didn't think of him much at all. Now she was going to get herself killed in the Deep Roads with the map he gave her. He felt justified in his irritation.

Instead of rising to the argument she simply shook her head. "Thanks for the map," she said.

"You could do with a good healer, you know."

"Goodbye, Warden," she said, squeezing his arm, and she left him.


	2. Chapter 2

Act II: Dissent

"Back again," Cullen observed. Whenever Anders of Darktown was under some new scrutiny, it was only a matter of time before Serah Hawke paid him a friendly visit, angling for whatever information he would give her. "I'll save you some trouble," he told her. "Yes, your friend is being investigated again. No, we don't have enough evidence to arrest him. Yes, I still look forward to arresting him. Did I leave anything out?"

She actually laughed.

"Not that I don't enjoy your company, Serah."

She settled comfortably against the wall, glancing around the courtyard with a practiced eye. "Do you ever take time off, Knight-Commander?"

He wasn't sure how sincere she really was. Some mages were like this. They developed a sort of interest—an attraction—for Templars. And vice-versa, of course, and he knew from experience it only led to trouble.

"That's not a good idea," he told her.

"Right," she said.

"I don't want there to be any confusion," he said.

She nodded, still surveying the courtyard. "Do you look forward to arresting me?"

"Not especially," he said, and realized he meant it. She glanced at him, but he was already shaking his head. "Which isn't to say that I _wouldn't_ arrest you, Serah Hawke. Only that I would rather not."

She smiled again, but it was a little forced this time. "There are a few blood mages around here, Knight-Commander. I'm sure you've noticed. Has it always been this way in Kirkwall?"

"As long as I've been here, the numbers have been high. But blood magic persists everywhere, in my experience."

She shifted her weight. She started to say something, then seemed to go another direction. "Do you intend to go back?"

To Ferelden, she meant.

"I hadn't thought about it." This was a lie, and almost reflexively, as if to cover up his dishonesty, he added, "Would you look forward to my leaving?"

"Not especially," Serah Hawke said.

0-0-0

"Hey, Warden," she said, breezing through the clinic entrance. It was brazen, the way she wore that noble finery, the heavily-embroidered robes and glittering jewelry, even in Darktown. She was asking for trouble. "It's the veil," she said, not waiting for a greeting.

It was always this way when she wanted something from him. Fenris trailed in behind her, and Anders felt his mood darken further. Hawke was oblivious. "I found these fragments of-"

"The veil?" he interrupted. "You're worried about the veil?"

She paused, a suspicious arch in her eyebrow. "Is that a trick question?" she asked.

"What about the injustice right under your nose? Can you be bothered about that?"

She raised her hands in mock surrender. "Oh, you're right, Anders! I'm so sorry. Forgive me. How have you been? Templars keeping you up these nights? Blood mages and demons have been keeping _me_ up, but I suppose that's the order of things."

"As a matter of fact, the Templars have been coming around Darktown more often," he said. "And I wouldn't expect you to notice, but there are more tranquil in the courtyard these days. A lot more."

Hawke folded the letters. "When weak mages fail their Harrowing they are made tranquil. I know that in a perfect world inferior mages would never be held accountable for-"

"No," Anders said. "They didn't fail their Harrowing. They're dissenters. They were made tranquil to shut them up."

"That's illegal," Hawke said, and the sharpness in her voice gave him hope.

"They're calling it the tranquil solution," he said. "They're going to turn every mage in Kirkwall tranquil within three years."

"You're paranoid," Fenris said from where he was leaning against the doorway. The elf never ventured far into the clinic if he could help it. Anders appreciated the sentiment.

"I'll prove it," Anders said. "I'll show you."

Hawke and Fenris exchanged a glance. They did that a lot. It was annoying. Something must have been communicated, because Fenris said, "Very well," with evident displeasure.

"You don't have to come," Anders told him shortly.

"Don't I?" Fenris muttered.

Anders gave them directions and arranged to meet them at nightfall. It was only after they were gone that he realized she'd actually called him Anders.

0-0-0

Just like that, it was over. Anders was gone, the girl was gone, and Hawke had set upon Alrik's corpse, yanking away armor and mail until she found a folded paper. She examined it, then held it out to Fenris without looking up.

He accepted it and waited. She wasn't even paying attention to him, she was staring down at Alrik's corpse as though it were the most revolting thing she'd ever seen.

"The Knight-Commander said no. Grand Cleric Elthina said no. As if there would be any doubt." She stood abruptly, then swayed slightly and sat down. "Maker help us," she said.

"Anders is delusional," Fenris said. "He does not understand his own limitations. Surely that is no surprise."

"He wasn't that far off," Hawke said sharply. "They turned Alrik down, but the fact that someone would even suggest something like this, a tranquil solution..." Her expression changed.

"Hawke?" he asked, and she rose suddenly, fleeing to a darkened side passage. After a moment he heard her retching. He did not follow.

He did not care about welfare of the Circle or the mages or Anders, but he felt something—a small prickling. He chose not to explore or understand. He quashed it neatly.

0-0-0

When Hawke found him at the clinic she gave no preamble, as usual. "People like you are the reason mages belong in the Circle," she said, and her voice was cold. She had not changed from her ruined robes yet; blood, likely Alrik's, stained her sleeve.

Anders had been preparing for this conversation in his mind—what he wanted to say, how he wanted to acknowledge that he'd lost control and that it was dangerous, how he would make her understand his side of things—but everything he'd rehearsed that was wiped away in an instant, replaced with an instinct to bite back. "You bloody hypocrite," he said. "You're exactly the same as me."

"You're an _abomination._" She spit the word out like it was venom. "We are _nothing_ alike."

He felt Justice rise to the surface, just for a second. Her reaction was what snapped him out of it—she raised her arm in a defensive gesture, anticipating a blow. Immediately, he willed control, pushing that other part of him deep down inside.

"I don't want to have this argument again. I need you—I need you to trust me. Do you understand?"

"Trust you? Your hate for the Templars is so irrat—"

"You know what I hate?" he asked.

She didn't answer. She waited for it. "I hate what you've become," he said. "And I'm not alone. You hate yourself. Look at you. You think those noble robes change anything? You think an Amell signet ring makes the Knight-Commander forget what you are? You think your mother's banal, perfect, wonderful, mage-free heritage will shield you from his sword, when he decides you're just another mage to be turned tranquil so he can—"

She slapped him. He saw it coming, but didn't bother trying to deflect it. He wanted to establish that she would resort to physical violence first, not him. When she dropped her hand, it was shaking.

"Warden—" she began, her voice tight, and he cut her off.

"Anders," he said. "Anders."

"You don't know me."

"I do know you. I know who you are, what your potential is. That's the problem," he said. "I can't stop thinking about you. You haunt my dreams. You're—" He knew he should stop. He didn't stop. He plunged. When he crushed his mouth to hers, she made a noise, a wanting noise, and he pulled her down onto the floor, peeling away her ruined, expensive layers and casting them aside. She yielded under his hands. When he stripped away the last stitch of fabric, he found he liked to see her free of the trappings of House Amell and the Kirkwall gentry. He liked it a lot.

When they were spent, and he pulled away, her face was flushed. She grabbed her robes, pulling them to her. She was tense. This bothered him.

"Do you... regret this?" he asked.

"No," she said, with a certainty that put him at ease. "But you were right, this can only end badly."

He couldn't hold it against her. Those were his words, after all—intended bait that was now working against him. He wanted to ask if there was someone else, but he didn't, because he didn't want to hear Hawke say any other name, not now.

She rose, shaking out the robe and cloak, and dressed, briskly but without hurrying. When she left, he watched her until she was gone from sight.

He never saw her wear those robes, or anything like them, ever again.

Years later, he learned that she burned them.


	3. Chapter 3

Act II: Bitter Pill

Fenris had grown accustomed to seeing less and less of Hawke when she returned from the Dark Roads, and was not surprised when the scales distributing her time between her old companions at the Hangman and the newly interested Hightown gentry eventually tipped in favor of Kirkwall's elite. He knew from comments by Aveline and Varric that Hawke was gaining political influence, as well as the obligations that came with it, but he cared nothing for politics and this explanation left him cold.

The last time he'd seen her, she asked for a favor. He agreed, and went with her into Kirkwall's underground for tattered letter fragments that she found fascinating and he found meaningless. This led to another favor-this time for Anders, of all people-after which he had the displeasure of watching Anders unravel and Hawke go after him, against all reason. They hadn't spoken since. The incident only served to remind him how far they had come from their companionable evenings before.

When she arrived at his study one evening without warning, he was surprised-not by her presence, but by his acute displeasure at seeing her.

"Don't tell me they ran out of wine at Hawke Manor," he said, nettled.

Most people would have had the grace to look embarrassed, he supposed, but Hawke wasn't most people. Some would have given an excuse for the protracted absence, but Hawke wasn't that kind of person either.

She sat in her usual chair-funny that he still thought of it as her chair-and reached for the nearest bottle of wine as if she owned it. Some things never changed.

But some things had changed. She wore a plain robe, and aside from the ubiquitous Amell signet ring, there wasn't a scrap of jewelry on her. It was a stark contrast from their last encounter.

Hawke tipped back the bottle, took a healthy drink, and said, "Inquires have been made about you."

"I'm aware of Aveline's concerns," he said.

"These inquiries were made in…" She searched for the right words. "Noble apostate circles," she decided, finally. "By someone with a lot of resources." She handed over the bottle, and he took it, but didn't drink.

"Danarius' agents," he said, immediately. His old master was never far from his mind.

She nodded. "You should be careful."

"Aren't I always?"

"This is different."

"Different? You mean from the ones he sent the last time, and the ones before that?" He frowned. "Why are you here? You've told me nothing I don't already know."

"Do you want me to leave?"

"No," he said.

"You're upset."

"And that's an issue?" he asked. Her brow furrowed quickly, just for a moment. It was the Hawke equivalent of a flinch.

"You aren't even curious as to why I've come?" she asked. Already, her tone was cooling.

"I have my uses," he said shortly. "Isn't that it?"

"That's part of it."

"I'm listening," he said.

"The same agents who are asking about you are asking about me. They've been making inquiries among those who are sympathetic to the Imperium's, shall we say, _way of life_. They're operating within Hightown proper, but they are delivering the information to someone staying in the outskirts the city. I noticed patterns in the deliveries, and I have some ideas about where that person might be." She showed him several areas she had noted on her map.

"I see," he said.

She was right, this was different. Before, inquiries had been delivered overseas. Whoever commissioned these men was nearby, gathering intelligence, waiting. And then there was the inclusion of Hawke. Fenris wasn't sure what it meant, but he didn't like it.

"You've spent time on this," he said. Dates had been scratched along certain routes, and some of them were nearly three months old.

"You've got enough to deal with. I didn't want to bother you until I was sure," she said.

He didn't know how to interpret that, so he ignored it. "When can we intercept them?" he said.

"In three days," she said.

"In three days, then," he replied, and she nodded, rising to leave.

As she went to the door, he said, "And the other reason?"

"What?"

"You said this was only part of the reason. What is the other?"

"Why, the Agrisio Pavanii, of course," she said.

0-0-0

When she showed up the next evening with a bottle of her own, he was surprised again, but this time the experience was more pleasant. She was in her mercenary leathers and looking more than a little grimy.

"It's no Agrisio," she said, and he understood this was some type of apology. The look of her after an apparently hard day of work, tired and covered in sweat and dirt, grasping the wine bottle firmly by the neck with a dirty hand with dirty fingernails, was strangely mollifying. She could have gone home, but for whatever reason, she had come here.

"Don't tell me they ran out of bathwater at Hawke Manor," he said, fishing for a smile. He was rewarded. He'd forgotten how easy it was to make Hawke smile.

"I know, I know. Can't be helped," she said, popping open the bottle. She offered it to him, and he accepted. "I've been spelunking again. Kirkwall must have the filthiest underground in the Free Marches."

"What are you looking for, exactly?" he asked, taking a drink.

"Letters, mostly, and a few books. I found a number of merchants are selling extremely dangerous magical tomes-the fences had no idea they were authentic. I've purchased a few, and… ah, _borrowed_ a few more, but when I heard about a cache under the city I had to see for myself." She made a circle with her thumb and index finger. "And I got this much for my trouble. Either someone else got there first or it was bad information to begin with."

"You went alone?" he asked.

She hesitated mid-drink, finished, and said, "I don't want Anders seeing these things. Not until I see them first and know what's in them." That was not quite what he meant. She must have realized as much, because after a moment she said, "Fenris, you don't want to get caught with this stuff. It's high-level magical contraband. It falls under the Templars' jurisdiction, they'd hound you to death." She propped up her feet and said, "Enough about that. Talk to me."

"About what?" he asked.

"Anything. I like to listen you talk. You have a very relaxing voice."

He obliged her. He told her about the Qun, a topic he knew she would be interested in, and as they sat together late into the night, the bottle long empty, he reflected that this was different than before, but it felt right.

0-0-0

He stared at Hadriana's corpse for some time.

He thought of all the times she'd withheld his meals. She tried to make him beg. He never begged. He never reacted at all. But in the end, his body always betrayed him. His hands would tremble; his stomach would growl; his eyes were drawn to the others' plates as they ate, no matter how much he willed himself to look disinterested.

Upon noticing, Danarius always asked, "Have you fed our little wolf, Hadriana?"

It was a joke to them. _Have you fed our pet? Have you fed our little Fenris? _As if he was a dog whimpering and begging scraps under the table. He could feel the hunger acutely even now, as if he'd never truly derived nourishment, not even after his escape.

Hadriana's corpse stared back at him, glassy-eyed and unflinching.

In his imaginings, he'd spit in her face. Dashed her skull on the ground. Lit the remains on fire or threw them into the sea. Now it all seemed pointless. The shadows of his former hunger pains were all he felt—he didn't even get a sliver of satisfaction. He couldn't be bothered to desecrate her body. He couldn't even be bothered to look at her anymore.

Outside, dusk had fallen on the Wounded Coast. Hawke was waiting for him, cross-legged, her hands outstretched towards a small campfire. White sand dusted her boots. How long had she been here, alone? Long enough to accumulate a reasonable layer of ash around the fire, it seemed.

She'd tried to do something back in the den, tried to touch him, and he'd struck her, hard. The act was driven by instinct rather than will, it was some kind of reflex response. Immediately, Varric's crossbow had been trained on him. And almost as immediately, Hawke had signaled for him to lower it and stepped back, wiping away the blood that trickled from her lip. "I'll be outside," she'd said, and here she was.

When she looked over at him now, her split lip staunched but evident, his words echoed back to him: _"What has magic touched that it hasn't spoiled?" _

He felt slightly ill.

When he went to her, he said, "It wasn't what I thought it'd be."

She didn't answer, she only nodded, waiting, and he was glad. The truth poured out of him, his hatred, his resentment, all of it, even the worst, most degrading aspects of life in the Imperium, and she listened.

Abruptly, he realized he'd been talking a very long time-possibly longer than he'd ever talked to anyone about his life-and it was night and a chill was creeping up along the perimeter of the fire.

"It's late," he said. He was suddenly very tired.

"Fenris, I'm sorry," she said. It was all she said, but it was enough.


	4. Chapter 4

Act II: Politics

"Hey, Warden," Hawke said. To her credit, she knocked this time.

"I'm surprised to see you here," Anders said. And he was. After their last encounter, he'd thought that really was the end of it. He had mixed feelings about seeing her again.

"I heard about your proclamation."

"Yes," Anders said, pleased. "I'm presenting it to the Viscount tomorrow. Whether he wants it or not. Our voices will be heard." He tapped the sheathe of papers, then said, "You could come with me. It would mean a lot, having support from someone with your influence."

"Anders, you aren't going to like this, but hear me out."

This phrasing, and the use of his name, was likely intended to soften his resolve, but it had the opposite effect. He felt himself instinctively steeling against whatever she was going to say. Hawke sensed it, too, and said, gently, "Anders, I need you to hold off for a few days."

"It's already been arranged. Getting someone like me into the Keep takes a great deal of planning. The bribes alone..." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, I can't do that."

"Trust me, I know how difficult it is to get the Viscount's attention, but I really need you to do this. Do it for me, as a personal favor." Hawke's voice was calm, but determined.

"The moment you walked in, I should have known you wanted something. I only ever see you when you want something."

This hit a nerve. "You too?" Hawke asked, a little sharp.

"So you treat all your friends like this? Small wonder."

"Look, this is a huge inconvenience, I understand that. Maybe I can help you if you help me—"

"Huge inconvenience?" Anders asked. "_Maybe_ you can help me?" He could feel his tone rising to argument-level. It was always going to be like this—her wanting, him giving, and never any reciprocation. It astounded him she could be so self-absorbed.

"Anders, I'm not asking you not to deliver the proclamation, I'm asking you to give me a few days."

"Why? What are you planning?"

"I can't tell you that."

"Hawke, you do realize you are one of the most manipulative, self-serving people I've ever known," he said.

She tried another tactic. "I need you to trust me."

"Like you trust me?"

This hit another nerve, apparently. Hawk's brow furrowed momentarily and she said, "I do, I trust you have my best interest at heart."

"I wish I could say the same, but you've been very lukewarm on mage equality and you've given me no assurances that you'd even lift a finger to help the cause."

He'd braced himself for war, so when she said, "Fair enough, I understand," he stared at her.

"Who are you?" he demanded. "What have you done with Hawke?"

"I don't—" She sighed. "I really can't argue the point, Anders, especially with you. I asked you a favor, I hope you consider it. I don't want to fight."

"It's my roguish good looks, isn't it?" he asked, pleased. He really couldn't help himself, she had never dropped an argument in favor of peace before. "Or perhaps my skill level?"

For a fleeting moment, he thought he'd made a mistake with that last part, considering the circumstances of their intimacy, but Hawke merely rubbed her forehead and muttered, "Probably both," before adding, "Definitely both. Just think about it, please."

"I will," he said, fixated—not on her request, but the blunt admission that she was attracted to him. That had happened… precisely never. Hawke never said things like that. He'd caught her tracking the Knight-Captain with her eyes a few times, he'd even caught her looking at him, her eyes quickly shifting away when their gazes met, but that was the extent of it.

He couldn't consider her request, of course. Making a public proclamation to put pressure on the Viscount was too important. But her being attracted to him, of admitting the attraction… now that had some real possibilities.

0-0-0

Getting into the Keep was not as easy as he'd hoped, considering the palms that had been greased. Nevertheless, he was able to get into the main hall at noon, at the height of bustle, and was pleased with the audience he would have. The seneschal was not at his usual post, and Anders was able to slip into hallway leading to the Viscount's office without obstruction.

The office door was open; he overheard voices.

"…That the Templars have too much power over these people," Hawke was saying. "I don't intend that as a slight in any way—I believe the Knight-Commander has done an excellent job and is very dedicated to Kirkwall's safety—but I do have confirmation of rights violations. They are citizens first and mages second, and unlike most prisoners, the majority of them have broken no laws. The Guard should have oversight of their welfare, for checks and balances. There should be routine inspections and an auditing procedure."

"Mage rights violations? That sounds familiar," a male voice said. "It sounds like that zealot in Darktown."

"This proposal was written over several months with input from First Enchanter Orsino, Guard-Captain Vallen, and Knight-Captain Cullen," Hawke said. "I consider them credible experts on the subject. I don't consider the apostate fringe credible or expert."

"And you?" the man countered. "Your credibility remains to be seen."

"Magistrate Pehn, I can arrange an open review with any experts you feel are credible," Hawke said. "Certainly changes will need to be made going forward. But for now, I would greatly appreciate it if the Viscount would consider my proposal."

"That's a reasonable request," the Viscount said. "Magistrate Vanard and Knight-Captain Cullen have spoken very highly of you, the latter in particular. I will give your proposal my consideration. But that's all I can guarantee, Hawke—my consideration."

"Thank you, Viscount Dumar," Hawke said.

Anders realized, too late, that there was no escape, no place to hide; when they left the Viscount's office he would immediately be seen, either standing in the hallway or trying to make a run for it. He opted to be caught standing there and waited, uncertain.

Hawke emerged with the Seneschal and Magistrate Pehn, whom Anders had seen around Hightown but had not known by name until now. Hawke looked exhausted. If she was surprised when she saw him, she did not show it. "Anders, it's been a long time. Here to bother the Viscount yet again?" Her voice was cool, unfriendly.

The two men exchanged looks behind her back, and Anders understood immediately.

"No. But it looks like you are," he said, giving the words an edge. "What is it now? Lower taxes for the Hightown gentry at the expense of those in Darktown? Or perhaps they all need a few extra balconies added to their mansions?"

The magistrate said, "I was under the impression you two were friendly."

Anders found it was actually quite easy to sound bitter when he said, "Sadly, Serah Hawke and I don't agree. On a great many things. If you'll excuse me." Abruptly, he turned to Seneschal Bran. "I wanted to report an issue with the drinking water. It's causing a public health problem will begin affecting the water in higher elevations of the city if it isn't corrected."

"I see." Bran didn't quite look convinced, but he said, "Come with me, then."

As Anders followed Seneschal Bran, he overheard Hawke say, "Radicalism does them no credit."

He also overheard the magistrate say, "I'm glad we agree."

0-0-0

He waited until nightfall to visit Hawke Manor. He didn't quite feel he owed her an apology—how was he to know she was petitioning on mages' behalf when she wouldn't tell him anything?—but he didn't want to add any fresh wrinkles to their relationship, now that things seemed to be finally smoothing out.

When Hawke opened the door and saw him, she welcomed him in. "Anders," she said, clasping his hands. "We couldn't have planned that better ourselves." A roaring fire was going and a bottle with a lone glass sat on the mantle. He caught a hint of wine on her breath. Her cheeks were flush.

"Why didn't you tell me what you were up to?" Anders asked, pleased at this reception and the warmth of her hands.

"I worked hard to get the Viscount's attention; I couldn't do anything that might jeopardize his trust. Even going to see you the day before was a risk." Abruptly, she pulled him close in a hug. "Can you believe how beautifully that went? It was perfect timing. It created a distinction between…"

He wasn't listening, he was too focused on the moment. She was beautiful when she was happy. So completely, perfectly beautiful. The ease she had with him now, the freeness of her touch and her embrace, the openness and trust, was intoxicating. When she pulled away, he wasn't ready to be parted; he brought her back into his arms and kissed her, cutting her words short, and she responded with an eagerness that set his body aflame.

Between kisses, she whispered, "I want you," into his mouth, and all caution was surrendered.

Without hesitation, he hoisted her in his arms, propelling them both to the bedroom. Then she was beneath him, and his attention was divided between kissing her—Maker, that mouth was created to be kissed—and sliding his hands along the hem of her robes, searching for an entrance.

He forced himself to pace her undressing, to match the speed with which she was tugging away his own clothes, and by the time she was naked, and he was nearly there, his desire to be inside her burned so intensely he could hardly think straight.

He shifted, letting her feel his hardness against her thigh, and that seemed to awaken some sense of awareness in her. She broke their lingering kiss and said, "Promise me this won't change anything."

"Of course not," he murmured between kisses, his fingers navigating the warm curves before him.

She grabbed his face, forcing him to make eye contact. "Anders, I mean it. I can't handle anything serious right now. It can't be like that."

He ran his hands up the length of the insides of her thighs, eliciting a soft gasp. "Just friends," he said. "You have my word." Then he ran his hands elsewhere.


End file.
